


Hit and Run - Part Five

by withoutaplease



Series: Hit and Run [5]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy is an asshole again, Don't say I didn't warn you, Drinking, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff, Language, MAJOR CLIFFHANGER ENDING, Smoking, Smut, beat up Billy, discussion of suicide attempt (Reader), implied abuse (Billy), oral sex (giving)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 21:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21106634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: Billy collects his birthday gift.  Reader really is accident-prone.Note: This is a timestamp series based on my drabble, Cherry Lane.





	Hit and Run - Part Five

_March 31, 1985_

When you left the house on the morning of the day he turned eighteen, Billy’s car was already gone from his driveway, and he didn’t show up at school. He wasn’t back the next day, or the day after that, and part of you was glad because you had absolutely no idea what you’d say if you saw him. The other part wanted to see him anyway, and didn’t give a shit if you said anything at all. 

It was on Sunday, sometime between your two o’clock peek out the bathroom window and your three, that the car reappeared. You made up your mind to march right over there, to hell with knowing what to say, and then fucked around procrastinating until the sun went down. 

That’s what you were doing at ten o’clock that night, when a knock at your door startled you out of your made-for-tv movie. You jumped up, and looked through the privacy-glass window.

“I can see you,” Billy said from the other side. 

You flicked on the porch light and opened the door, took one look at him, and said, “Jesus Christ, what happened to your face?” 

He grinned crookedly around a split lip. “Good to see you, too,” he said. “You gonna invite me in?” You stepped back, motioned for him to enter, shut the door behind him. He was walking a little funny, like he was stiff, or hurt more than you could see. Probably that one, given the state of him. Besides the lip, he had a fresh-looking shiner so bright it was glowing, and for all you knew, that was the tip of the iceberg. He stopped you as you opened your mouth to speak. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not here for an answer.”

You almost laughed, because that might not have been the last thing on your mind right now, but it had to be close. “That’s good, because I don’t have one,” you said. 

“I’m here for my present,” he continued, with a smile that had to be painful, but certainly was effective. This time, you did laugh.

“You're an idiot," you said, and turned to lead him to your bedroom. He followed, and didn't so much flop as delicately rest on the bed. You winced with him.

"Seriously," you said, sitting opposite on your desk chair. "What the hell happened to you? Where have you been?"

"Me and a couple of the guys just drove up to the city, to get a motel room for my birthday. I would have told you, but you were being weird."

"_I_ was being weird," you repeated.

"That's what I said," he confirmed, grinning wryly. "Anyway, it was all fun and games until we tried to buy some coke, and then the fucker and his goons tried to mug us."

"Did they take anything?"

"Nope," he said. "Sent 'em running, kept the drugs and the money."

It was a good story, anyway.

"Is that it?" you asked.

"That's it," he said. "You want me to draw you a picture?"

"No, I think I got it," you said. "Sounds like your dream vacation."

"Only missing one thing," he teased. "So what are you sitting all the way over there for?"

"You're injured," you pointed out.

"My dick's not injured," he countered, resting his palm on the front of his jeans for emphasis. 

“Who could resist a come-on like that?” you deadpanned.

He chuckled, and held out an arm toward you. “Would you just get over here? I’m too tired for this.”

You got up from the chair and nestled in beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. You draped your arm over his chest, and he hissed and pushed it down to sit on his stomach, instead. “Broken?” you asked.

“Just bruised, I think,” he said. Then, “Hey, you wanna see something? Give me my arm back for a second.” You sat up, and so did he, and then he (very carefully) started to take his shirt off. 

“Is this your move?” you asked, bemused.

He shook his head dismissively. “You’re too easy for moves.” And you would have smacked him, except injuries. When the shirt came off and he set it aside, you how bad they were. All along his right flank, red and purple bruises bloomed. 

“Ouch,” you said sympathetically.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “That’s not what I’m trying to show you. Look at this.” He turned stiffly, and showed you his shoulder. You burst into laughter.

“What is that?” you asked, between fits. “Tell me that’s not real.”

“Of course it’s real,” he snapped, looking defensively down to admire his new tattoo. “It turned out deadly.”

“So you meant for it to look like that?” you asked, unable to achieve a straight face. 

He scowled. “You just have terrible taste,” he said, lying back down again.

“In men, or in general?” you quipped.

He sighed shallowly. “You know, I didn’t come here so you could roast me.”

“No, you came here so I could blow you.”

He shrugged, and grinned. “It was worth a shot.”

“The tattoo is very _you_,” you said, lying back down with him, pressing your cheek against his chest.

“Well now you’re just blowing smoke up my ass,” he said, and wrapped his arm around you, and fell into silence. After a while, you started sweeping your fingertips over his chest, back and forth and down toward his navel, taking special care to be gentle near the wreck of his right flank. He started breathing slower, heavier, and when you brushed your thumb over a nipple, it hardened, and he gasped. “Whatcha doin?” he asked, piquedly, but didn’t make a move to stop you. 

You sat up and rolled onto all fours over top of him. “Shhh,” you said. “You might get your birthday present if you don’t fuck it up.”

Turned out, he _did_ know how to shut his mouth when it was good for him.

You dipped down, and trailed the tip of your tongue all along the path where you fingers had been. When you reached the nipple, you grazed it with your teeth, and he hissed, but kept still. Then you moved lower, dragging your tongue down along his stomach, until your chin hit denim. He was hard, and getting a little twitchy. You smiled up at him, and unbuttoned his jeans. He grunted a little when he raised his hips you you could pull them down around his knees, but he soldiered on like a champ. And he was right about one thing, there was nothing wrong with the state of his dick.

You grabbed him, and ran your tongue over the tip, already slick and salty. He sighed, and let his head fall back. Then you took him into your mouth, and all the way into the back of your throat, until your nose was brushing curlies and he full-on groaned. You grinned around him, and then slid him back up the length again. He reached down, and threaded his fingers into your hair.

You worked him over, hands, lips, and tongue, slowly at first, and then faster, until he started to tremble beneath you in the most satisfying way. He panted, and then he moaned softly, and then the moans started sounding more like whimpers as his lungs rose and fell. You looked up. “You good?” you asked. “You want me to stop?”

He didn’t push your head back down, exactly, but he definitely strongly encouraged it. “Don’t you dare,” he said hoarsely, so you didn’t. A minute later he was grunting, and tightening his fist in your hair, and spilling bitter-salty on the back of your tongue. 

“Holy shit,” he said breathlessly, followed by, “ow.”

“Are you actually okay?” you asked, sitting up and looking him over.

He chuckled, and that looked like it hurt, too. “Collateral damage,” he said. “Worth it.” You laid down - gently - alongside him again. “You want me to . . ?” he asked, holding up and curling his middle and index fingers. And you did, of course you did, you were slippery as an oil slick, but you couldn’t stand to see him wince again.

“Maybe later,” you said. “Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” he repeated, carefully pulling his jeans up, and sighed. “I need a smoke.” He started to get up, and you pressed him back down again.

“Just do it in here, I’ll leave the window open. It’ll be gone by the time my mom gets home in the morning.”

“She’s on the night shift?” he asked, feeling around for his shirt and pulling his cigarettes out of the pocket. You nodded. “You mind if I stay, then?”

“Of course I don’t mind.”

“My dad’s being kind of a dick, I’d just rather be here.”

_Bit of an understatement_, you thought, but only said, “I said yes already.” You got up to open the window, and grabbed one of your collection of dirty coffee cups to use as an ashtray. He smoked, and watched sleepily as you changed out of your jeans and into some fresh pajamas. You turned out all the lights except the reading lamp on your nightstand, and climbed into bed. He held out his smoke to you, and you took a long drag. “Would you tell me?” you asked carefully, handing back the smoke.

“Tell you what?”

“If something was wrong,” you said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He sounded baffled enough that you thought maybe it was true. “Would you tell me if you weren’t okay?” you asked.

_Come on, Billy. Show me yours._

“Sure,” he said, frowning with his good eyebrow. “I’d tell you anything.”

“That’s good,” you said softly, as if you believed him. He butted out the smoke, and you reached over to turn off the lamp. 

“I know I said I wasn’t looking for an answer -” he murmured, as you settled into the crook of his arm in the darkness. 

“It isn’t no,” you said, in a tone that invited no further discussion.

“All right,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll take it. For now.”

_But it isn’t ‘yes’, either._

*****

_April 20, 1985_

Any way you looked at it, the whole thing was Billy’s fault. For being behind the wheel, for showing up at the party, and for driving you to drink in the first place. It was his fault you were thirty-three sheets to the wind that night, because that’s how many sheets it took to get him off your mind for once. That was your one and only goal for the evening, and the fact it failed spectacularly was his fault, too.

You were on your fourth venue of a therapeutic girls’ night when he arrived, unexpected, at the same party you were. There were pre-pre-drinks at Julie’s house, and Donna’s flask of whiskey on the walk to pick up Jenny, and then pre-drinks with Jenny and her giant bottle of schnapps. You managed to lose all three of them within moments of arrival at the party, but you didn’t have any trouble making new friends. You were sitting at the basement bar with a few of them - some college guys from the city - when Billy appeared, out of absolute nowhere, moments after you snorted your first ever line of coke. 

He came right up and put a hand on your shoulder, not grabbing you, exactly, but still throwing you off balance. Before you could say so much as hello, he flashed a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, and said “Y/N, you want to get out of here?”

Blood pumping hard and flush with chemical confidence, your first impulse was to laugh. “I can’t get away from you,” you said. “Everywhere I look, there you are.” He didn’t laugh with you.

“This your boyfriend?” one of your new friends (Andy?) asked. 

“No,” you said.

“Yeah,” Billy said.

_Interesting_, you thought, but there was no time to pursue it.

“Well, which is it?” Andy (or was it Anthony?) asked.

“None of your fuckin’ business is what it is,” Billy said, turning a sardonic smile on Anthony. “She’s coming with me.”

“No, I’m not,” you said, quite matter-of-factly, and he might not have told you _stay out of this_ in the verbal sense, but he certainly said it with his eyes. You didn’t budge. “I’m having a good time here.”

“I can see that,” he said, glancing around the table, pausing briefly on the rolled-up dollar bills. “But I think it's getting late.”

“She said she doesn’t want to go with you, pal,” Anthony’s friend (Tall Mike, you remembered that one) said, standing up from his barstool. Mike had half a foot on him, but that didn’t stop Billy from stepping up to him, from grinning wolfishly right up into his stupid college guy face.

“You gonna stop us?” Billy asked, voice dangerously level. He looked around Mike, to Anthony, and (you wanted to say) Gord, slipping his jacket off his shoulders like a snake slipping out of its skin. “Any of you?” 

For a moment, everybody just stared at him, while he smiled patiently and cracked his knuckles. Gord and Anthony looked at each other, and then back down at the bar. Billy raised his eyebrows questioningly at Mike, who muttered something along the lines of, _not worth it_, and sat back down again. Billy shrugged and put his jacket back on. You giggled.

“Probably a good call, fellas," you commented, although you had to admit to a twinge of disappointment that you wouldn't get to see Billy take on three-to-one. You reached to pour another shot of rye, but glass flew from your fingers before you could grab the bottle.

“Come on,” Billy said, setting the glass down and picking up your jacket from the bad of the bar stool. “That’s enough.”

“I told you,” you said, picking up the glass again. “I’m staying.”

"Y/N," he said, with a note of warning.

"Billy," you answered, "would you please fuck off, I want another drink."

He took a deep, nostril-flaring breath, and then said, tiredly, “All right." Then he lifted you clear off the stool, slung you over his shoulder, and carried you up the stairs and out the back door, ignoring both the hoots and laughter of the spectators, and the kicks you landed on the backs of his thighs.. He didn't set you down until you were at the Camaro. “Get in the car,” he said.

You crossed your arms and glared.

He pinched between his eyes and winced. “Y/N,” he said, eyes closed. “Get in the car.”

You didn’t move.

“Would you just get in the fucking car!” he shouted, and stormed around to the driver’s side.

If it had been anyone else in the world, anyone at all, you would have made a break for it. But it was Billy, and you got in the car.

He climbed in, started the engine, and pulled away from the house without another word. You both stared carefully forward, seething, as you rode up the street. 

"You gonna tell me what that macho bullshit was in there?" you asked, when you couldn’t bear the silence any longer.

“Macho bullshit,” he repeated, enunciating every syllable. 

"Why didn't you just club me over the head and drag me by the hair?"

“I roll up to a party looking to have a good time, and before I even set one foot inside, some asshole’s running up to tell me I’d better mind my bitch -"

“Your _bitch_?” you said.

“His words, not mine. And then I find you falling down drunk with with a bunch of salivating meatheads, and excuse me if I’m a little concerned about it.”

You scoffed. "Well, I am certainly not your bitch, and last time I checked, I'm allowed to go out and have fun without you."

"Yeah, I know exactly what kind of fun your friends there were having," he said.

"So what?" you replied. "I can take care of myself."

“You drink until you can’t see straight, and then you take drugs you know nothing about from guys you just met, and you expect me to believe that? Did you take candy from old dudes in white vans, too?"

"You're such a hypocrite," you said. "You put way more shit in your body than I do, or at least that's what you say. So how is it any different when I do it?"

"It's different," he said, and his voice started to rise, "because I really can take care of myself, and I don't think you're even trying."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means as far as I can see, you're just killing yourself slowly instead of all at once. Maybe you should have just finished the job in the first place."

For a second, you were too stunned to speak, and you couldn’t feel it yet, but your heart broke. Right now, all you felt was fury.

You laughed mirthlessly. "Wow," you said, thrumming with it, "you’re a piece of shit. You have been a lying piece of psycho shit since the first day I met you, and I don’t know why I ever thought -” 

Because he was glaring over at you, he didn’t see the big buck leaping onto the road. “Billy,” you said quietly, interrupting your rant. He looked, and then he swerved, hard.

And then everything went black.


End file.
